


Cupid Would Blush

by Saebrin



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Assorted other Caps, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Matchmaking gone wrong (or very very right), Misunderstandings, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-20 13:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16138271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saebrin/pseuds/Saebrin
Summary: In which Andre tries to play matchmaker for Nicke and Ovi, but ends up matchmaking himself instead.





	Cupid Would Blush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taxingme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taxingme/gifts).



> Set during some nebulous point of the 2018-2019 NHL season. My original idea was to write you Nathan Walker fic, my wonderful gift-ee, but that went off the rails a bit in the outlining stages, so I hope you enjoy some poly Caps content in its stead!

 

Nicke and Ovi are at it again, with the flirting and the private smiles and the space-bubble invasions, getting their heart-eye cooties all over the gym. _Just, ugh, how?_ Andre wonders. How can they be like that and not realize it’s more? That they’re end-game, fated, a romance for the ages? The suns and stars, the moons of each other’s lives?

He sighs and props his chin on his palm, staring at them from across the room as he pedals his exercise bike half-heartedly.

“Someone should get them together,” he says.

Tom shoots him a weird look from the next bike over, where he’s got a single earbud in and some kind of gross green smoothie in his hand. “What?”

“Nicke and Ovi.” The _duh_ is implied. “How have they not died yet from all the UST?”

“Them? Seriously? They’re not the ones pining so much they’re about to turn into a tree. Or at least not the only ones,” Tom mutters, but Andre deigns to ignore him—now is _not_ the time to get sidetracked by rude chirps about his gargantuan crush that can probably be seen from Pluto. He’s on a mission here, damn it.

“Should I do it?” Yes, yes he should, he decides, because he loves them both and they deserve nice things, the _best_ things, and that means each other. A pang shoots through him at the thought, but whatever, he’ll learn to deal. Can’t always get what you want. And if it grinds his heart up into little tiny bits to watch them be in love—in love _without him_ —then that’s what’ll have to happen. “I’m gonna do it.”

Tom opens his mouth to respond, both eyebrows hiked up, but the window has already passed for other people’s opinions, okay, that is _so_ five minutes ago. He hops off the exercise bike and makes for the door, ideas swirling in his head.

Nicke and Ovi need a little nudge toward happiness, obviously, and he’s gonna be that nudge.

Even if it crushes him.

 

* * *

 

He starts off with the good ol’ lunch-date standby. It’s easy enough to get both Nicke and Ovi there; all he has to do is bust out the puppy-dog eyes and claim he could use some bonding time, that he’s been feeling neglected lately, and they jump at the chance to perk him up. It’s not a lie, okay, just a teensy misrepresentation of his actual motives.

Nicke shows up first, on time instead of fashionably late, and sinks down into the booth across from Andre. So far so good.

Naturally, then, things take a turn for the pear-shaped when Ovi arrives in a flurry of sweatpants and Nike products, squeezes into the booth alongside Andre instead of sitting with Nicke, and drapes an arm half across the seat back, half across Andre’s shoulders. Andre cuddles into the contact instinctively, starting to smile, but wait, shit, he’s not the one who’s supposed to be getting PDA here. He’s the matchmaker, the go-between, the voice of wisdom and selflessness who’s gonna link their souls in holy matrimony. He is not here for snuggles.

The weight and warmth of Ovi’s arm against the bare skin of his nape is really fuckin’ nice, though, and he can feel Nicke’s feet bumping against his own under the table, little gentle motions, and it’s all a bit too much for him. Fuses blown, thought-trains derailed, et cetera et cetera.

He spends the next ten minutes in a haze of attention-based pleasure, admittedly… uh… _basking_ a bit as Nicke and Ovi take turns teasing him and prodding him with questions. When their drink orders arrive, he jams his straw into his mouth and sucks down a gulp of strawberry-banana milkshake, and with his eyes scrunched shut against the brain freeze it triggers, he decides, _Next time._ _I’ll do it next time. I’ll make them see they’re in love… just not right now._

 

* * *

 

“Next time” is a late-night screening of _Captain Marvel_. He actually calls it _date night_ when he floats the idea to them, so there can’t be any confusion.

Somehow, though, he ends up herded into the middle seat with Nicke’s and Ovi’s shoulders pressed close against him, their body heat seeping through his jacket sleeves. At one point, Nicke leans in close to whisper about a plot hole, lips brushing the shell of Andre’s ear, and a shudder streaks down his spine before bee-lining straight to his crotch. Thank god for the extra-large popcorn resting on his lap—the popcorn Ovi bought him, to go along with the giant Icee Nicke insisted he should have. They hadn’t bought each other anything.

 _Grr._ Strike two.

 

* * *

 

His next attempt is lazer tag. Everything’s going great until he tries to ease his way outside to give them some alone time, faking a panicked phone call from Carly (“What do you mean he _swallowed the whole LEGO?_ Sorry, guys, I gotta take this. You go ahead.”), and Nicke and Ovi decide that if he can’t stay, they’ll just call it a night and reschedule.

 _Arggg!_ How are they supposed to start dating if they _won’t go on dates without him?_ He rubs at his temples after being dropped off, part frustrated and part guiltily relieved that they didn’t want to exclude him, but also dreading the day they’ll finally get their ducks in a row and he’ll have to stop third-wheeling.

His chest throbs at the thought, but he does his best to drown the misery with Fortnite, beer, and thawed-out cinnamon buns from the last time his parents came to visit. It works well enough until his head hits the pillow. Then he lies awake for over an hour, wrapped up in trying his damnedest to shove his selfish side back into the mind-closet it’s starting to creep out of.

It’s not a success.

 

* * *

 

By the time they’re wrapping up attempt four, a trip to Ovi’s favorite sushi bar, he has to admit his grand plan’s gone wrong.

Well, okay, maybe not wrong… he’s been enjoying the hell out of all this attention… but aren’t Nicke and Ovi supposed to be making gooey eyes and being all coupley with _each other_ instead of with him? Because that is decidedly not the case.

At dinner they insisted on buying his food again, and they tucked him onto a stool between them. They touched him more than they did each other, little shoulder-bumps and knee-taps and elbow-nudges. At one point, he even felt Ovi stroking slow fingers over the Cup tattoo on his arm, sending goose bumps of pleasure scattering over his skin.

After a while he started forcing himself to lean away from their touches, guilt and pleasure churning into an ugly twist in his gut. Even the relief of knowing he was doing the right thing _for them_ couldn’t stop the pain of seeing their confused faces when he suddenly instituted a space bubble three times its usual size, though.

Now, after they’ve dropped him off at his apartment and Ovi’s tail-lights have receded into the dark, he pinches his arm to make sure this isn’t some extended, multi-night dream fantasy. The sharp burst of pain clarifies that he is 100% awake and aware, so what the hell is going on?

He really, really wants all the affection and attention to mean what it looks like, but it can’t, right? He must be projecting or something, or they think he’s touch-starved, or they want to be doing these things with each other but are too shy, so they’re using him as a proxy. Hell, maybe they’re trying to make each other jealous, and all the touching and flirting with him is to spur the other into making the first move. It could be literally anything, except for probably what he’s hoping—that they’re genuinely interested in him, _both_ of them.

Maybe it’s time for that second opinion after all.

 

* * *

 

Tom was absolutely zero help last time, so he goes to Christian instead. Andre finds him and Vee huddled around a table in the bagel room with Chandler, Walks, and Madison, a deck of cards splayed out in a big mess in front of them, but he considers just doing an about-face and solving his own shit when Vee says, “Djooser, you’re _cheating_ ,” in the most scandalized tone he’s ever heard from somebody with half an ace poking out of their shirtsleeve. What a shitshow.

Still, he girds his loins and plops down into the spare chair, sighing dramatically to make his presence known amid the chaos.

“Help meeeee,” he implores, widening his eyes in a sad-puppy-dog fashion. It’s the most—and, honestly, only—effective weapon in his arsenal, and he’ll be damned if he’s not gonna use it.

Maybe it was overkill, though. The guys all swivel to stare at him like a pride of hungry lions, drama thirst gleaming in their eyes.

“It’s not working,” he offers as an opener.

“What isn’t?”

“The dating.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Madison asks carefully, “Like, for you, or for them?” Apparently everyone already knows what he’s been up to, which, whew, saves him having to explain it in detail at least. They all look very concerned on his behalf.

“ _Them_. I’ve been trying to hook them up for weeks, and they won’t ignore me long enough to get together!” He rocks his chair back on two legs and lets out an explosive breath, wobbling precariously for a moment. “I don’t get it, guys.”

A moment of silence falls. Then Chandler bursts out laughing, which, ugh, rude. Totally not helpful. “For real? Oh, bud, this is amazing.”

Walks sticks a hand over his mouth, cutting him off, and says with a bright smile, “Don’t worry, Dre. I’m sure it’ll work out. Just talk to ’em, yeah?”

Madison nods sagely. “Communication is key.” His lips twitch a couple of times before he molds his face into a neutral expression.

“Yeah, communication with your mouth, and your hands, and your di—oomph.” Vee wheezes, clutching at his side where Christian just elbowed him.

“Walks and Mads are right, man. I’d talk it out with them,” Christian says. “They wouldn’t want you stressing over it.”

“Okay.” Andre lets out a deep breath. “Okay, talk it out. I can do that.” Deciding that’s about the only helpful advice he’s going to get, he drops his chair onto all fours and hops up to leave.

It’s not till he’s out in the hallway that he wonders what Vee was getting at. Use his hands? Like, sign language? Nicke and Ovi probably don’t even _know_ sign language. That’s horrible advice. All his friends are useless.

 

* * *

 

On date number five, back at the same diner from his first attempt, they’ve barely sat down before Nicke says gently, “Andre, we need to have a talk.”

 _Crap. Oh god._ They’ve beaten him to it. The conversation starter he’d angsted over for hours is officially scrapped. Are they about to in-the-nicest-way-possible uninvite him from their dates? Maybe they’ve figured out what he’s up to and want to yell at him for meddling. Or, shit, what if they’ve realized how he feels and they’re trying to let him down easy? He squirms in his seat, fingers drumming on his crossed arms in a fluttering, restless beat.

The silence stretches, feeling like hours even though it’s probably only a few seconds, and then he blurts, “I’m sorry!” He’s not sure what for yet, but apologizing seems like a safe bet.

Nicke sits back and curls his fingers around his water glass, looking, strangely enough, a bit sad. “Nothing to be sorry for, Burky. Look, it’s just, this thing between us… if it’s moving too fast or it’s something you’re not cool with, you’re gonna have to tell us so, okay? ’Cause it seemed like you were on board.”

“Of course I’m on board,” he says, blinking. Why would they think he’s not on board? The whole point of this is for Nicke and Ovi to get their white picket fence and two-point-five kids and golden retriever, or whatever the gay European hockey-superstar equivalent is.

“Thank god,” Ovi says, interrupting his thoughts. “Worried maybe we freak you out, come on too strong, you know?”

“What? No, it’s fine, I’m fine.” He’s even more confused now, because honestly, they haven’t been coming onto each other _enough_ , and that’s the whole problem.

“If you’re fine, then why have you been so weird lately? And don’t deny it, you totally have been,” Nicke cuts in. Ah, good old blunt Nicke, always willing to put other people’s words through the shredder to get to the truth. His expression is stoic and his eyes are intense, kinda like when the clock’s ticking down in a tie game. Like how he looks during anything important, really. So this must be important to him. Huh. It’s kind of a nice realization.

Nicke raises an eyebrow, non-verbally prodding for an answer.

“I haven’t been weird,” Andre says in response, but his tone ends up a little too defensive. Ugh. No way they’re buying that. “I just didn’t wanna cause problems for you guys. Like, I know this isn’t really my business.”

Ovi holds up a hand. “Wait, wait, Burky, stop. What you mean ‘not your business’? You’re in this too!”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but obviously not _forever_. This is for you guys. To get _you_ together.”

Ovi frowns, a furrow digging into the space between his eyebrows, and Nicke says, “Burky, that’s not… we… we’re already together. We have been for years. You know that.”

What? No, that can’t be right. He’d have noticed. He watches Nicke and Ovi together all the time, sees the way they act and the way they talk. They’re happy, but not _I’m boning hardcore with the love of my life and we complete each other and nothing could ever be better_ happy. There’s been something missing.

“Like, in a romance way?” he asks, just to make sure there’s no wires getting crossed here. They could just mean “together” like lineys or friends or something.

“In a romance way,” Ovi confirms, his face serious for once, no gap-toothed grin in sight, and okay, Andre is convinced now.

Talk about embarrassing. He’s been trying to hook up two people who are already together, and they’ve been… what, humoring him? Scratching their heads over how oblivious he is? They must’ve been. The realization is like knocking over a pyramid of cans in a store—you can see the collapse in progress, you know what’s coming, but you’ve got sweet fuck-all of a chance of stopping it. All you can do is watch the humiliation unfold.

Right now, it is  _definitely_ unfolding.

“We want you to be a part of this, if that’s what you want too,” Nicke says then, cutting Andre off before his horrified thoughts can spiral any further. “In a romance way.”

And oh, _o_ _h_. Holy hell. Should he pinch himself again? His gut gives a little jolt, and the warmth swelling in his chest and throat is like the rising sun, like nirvana and puppies and a Stanley Cup afterparty all in one—he might even be glowing. He revels in it for a moment, just processing everything.

And then he _keeps_ processing things, other tangentially related things, and bit by bit the pieces start to come together. Tom’s comments in the gym, the guys’ careful tiptoeing and encouragement during the card-table conversation… they all knew. The whole time, they knew what Nicke and Ovi really wanted, and he was just stumbling around in the dark like an idiot, a lone ranger in the land of oblivion.

He drops his head into his hands. “Jesus, this is so embarrassing.” He’s never really felt the need to question his own intelligence, but this, right here? Being literally the only person who misunderstood what was going on? It has him feeling pretty damn dumb.

“Hey, man, it’s no big deal,” Ovi says, setting a hand on his forearm and giving it a little shake. “Me and Backy, we gonna be cool with whatever you want. If you say just friends, we can deal.”

“No!” he bursts out. He grabs at Ovi’s hand with enough speed and strength that Ovi startles back, eyes wide. “No,” he says again, forcing himself to use a softer, more even tone. “I want that. With you. Both of you.”

Ovi sighs in relief, slumping out of the stiff posture he’d adopted, and the smile that follows is blinding. Andre’s brain has already whizzed ahead to the next topic, though, questions burning to be let out, and so he focuses on those instead.

“So, how is this gonna work? Like, is this Nicke-and-Ovi-and-Burky, or Nicke-and-Ovi plus Burky?” It feels weird talking about himself in the third person, but he’s a little out of his depth here, okay. He’s trying  _super hard_ at this whole “communication” thing. Figuring he might as well cover all the bases, even Vee’s questionable advice, he holds up his hands—three twined fingers on one hand, and two twined ones plus a separate ring finger on the other.

“The first one,” Ovi replies immediately, without even glancing at Nicke to confirm. Not that it’d have made a difference, because the exact same answer slips from Nicke’s mouth a split-second behind him. Andre gets the sudden, distinct impression that they’ve talked this to death together already. That’s a relief, because he  _really_ didn’t want this conversation slipping into territory that might fuck up the team dynamics, and “we just want a third dude for some casual boning” could’ve definitely done that. (Andre is honest enough with himself to admit that he’d have accepted an offer like that, even if it wasn’t what he really wanted, and then been quietly miserable about it for, like, eternity. Good thing he doesn’t have to.)

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” he wonders aloud.

“You were young,” Nicke replies. “A rookie. _My_ rookie. Would’ve felt like taking advantage.”

And yeah, okay, he can understand that. He’s been with the team for years, yet he still has days where he feels like he’s neck-deep and sinking. Before the Cup run, throwing a romance with his captain and his A into the mix might’ve just tangled him up even deeper in his own insecurities and distracted them to boot.

“What about now, though?” he asks. “All those dates, and you didn’t say anything.”

“We didn’t wanna pressure you.” Nicke picks at the laminated edge of his menu, which is starting to peel. “Thought maybe you wanted to take things slow.”

“I don’t. We can take things fast. Like, super fast. We’re already past the third date, so technically even if we start now, we’re behind.”

That draws laughter from both Ovi and Nicke.

“Okay, speed demon,” Ovi teases, “you wanna go fast? We can do that.” He squeezes Andre’s thigh under the table. “I’ll get the check.”

 

* * *

 

“Fast,” apparently, means panting around the head of Nicke’s cock and rocking back into Ovi’s thrusts, his body burning up and turning liquid all at once as Ovi hammers his prostate.

He shudders to orgasm with a whine, and the vibrations make Nicke spill over his tongue, his fingers twined through Andre’s curls and tugging, tugging. The pressure on his scalp sends skitters of fire through his belly and groin. So does the gnashing of teeth against his shoulder as Ovi peaks a few thrusts later, and the lazy petting along his flanks that follows.

After Ovi pulls out, slow, careful of their sensitized bodies, Ovi and Nicke kiss over his head, and then two mouths are brushing his own, one after the other.

They clean up and spoon together, Andre at the front, his body lax and mellow, and as he smiles into his pillow with Nicke’s arm snaked over his side and Ovi’s foot tucked against his ankle, he decides he gives the best nudges  _ever_.


End file.
